


my better

by cherry_cup



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Attempted Murder Is Foreplay, Dark Hermione Granger, F/M, Hermione Wins, Hermione Yeets (throws) Tom, Manipulation, Manipulative Tom Riddle, Morally Ambiguous Character, Nebulous Tom Riddle (meaning that some things about him remain a mystery), Tom is beautiful, Tom uses an unforgivable on Hermione, Tomione Trope Bingo 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:55:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25581709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherry_cup/pseuds/cherry_cup
Summary: AU. Tom Riddle makes sure Hermione Granger never receives her Hogwarts letter. (written for Tomione Trope Bingo 2020)
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle, Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Comments: 40
Kudos: 251
Collections: Tomione Trope Bingo 2020





	my better

**Author's Note:**

> hiii. you may know me from ff.net, where i go by the same penname (cherry cup) and from my tumblr @cherriii. come say hi if you liked this. this was really fun to write and i hope i managed to make the tropes work. enjoy!

The air in the room has grown thin. She struggles a moment for breath.

“He said – he said he had been looking for the right kind of Muggleborn.”

“The right kind?” the juror repeats, looking down the length of his nose at her.

Hermione Granger does not flinch under his gaze, but she keeps twisting and untwisting the fingers in her lap. “Someone susceptible, I suppose.”

“And why would you, Miss Granger, be susceptible?”

Hermione glances sideways at the bespectacled wizard sitting to her right. His kindly eyes reassure her that she can speak freely. She knows that she is lucky to call Albus Dumbledore an ally, at the moment. He presides over this Council as Chief Warlock, after all.

She smiles sadly. “Because I was – I _am_ a very lonely person who always suspected there was something wrong with her.”

This plain, unvarnished statement leaves the members of the Wizengamot who have convened here tonight in uncomfortable silence. 

Hermione does not give them time to dwell on her confession. She presses on.

“As you know, he was there from the beginning. You see, I never received my Hogwarts letter. He made sure of that.”

* * *

1.

Hermione has been watching the owls all day. They are acting very strange, flying about in the daylight, diving down close to the roof of her house, only to glide away at the last moment, looking confused and startled.

It is unusual.

Her father tells her that there must be a storm coming. The summer has been rife with such testy weather. Her mother tells her to wash her hands before lunch. Hermione trudges up the stairs, twisting one curl between her fingers. Just this morning, she had opened the window sash without even touching it. She had wished for fresh air and the window pane had slid down before she even had the chance to get out of bed.

Little things like that happened all the time: the water starting to run in the tub the moment she decided on a bath, a pair of shoes flying up to her room when she required them. Small, domestic chores were done for her at the drop of a hat. There was also destruction, which she did not necessarily will. Vases broken, dresses torn, book pages burnt, if she wasn’t careful.

And now the owls.

Hermione has noticed that they’ve come very close to her window, the window she happened to open by magic. She can’t help but feel that everything is connected, that the owls are meant to tell her something important. She knows that night birds have a reputation for the occult. She has watched reruns of _Bewitched_ with her mother. She often wrinkles her nose like the intrepid witch, Samantha, but she does not look half as smart when she does it in front of the mirror. Still, she knows there must be an explanation for her “difference”.

Otherwise – otherwise, all of this is really bad.

She holds the soap between her hands, watches the bubbles of foam burst under the jet of water. _Please, I want to be special._

But not the _bad_ kind of special, she adds, as an afterthought.

She falls into bed that night, drained of energy. She has waited all day for _something_ , something magical.

But the owls have all flown away. 

Hermione stares at the starless night sky.

She cannot see the tall figure from across the street, watching her window intently.

He blends in with the shadows seamlessly.




Hermione sits on the edge of the velvet wingback chair. It’s very tempting to lie back and sink into the luxurious cushions and tell the doctor all your troubles. That is what this chair and this room were designed for.

The middle-aged man sits across from her in a replica of her chair. He too is alert, but he waits patiently for her to speak. His scrutiny makes her feel very big and very small, all at once.

This is a silent contest, of sorts. The first to speak loses.

Doctor Thorne is a worthy adversary, but her parents pay him quite a bit of money, so eventually, he must concede and speak.

“All right. I see you do not wish to talk about the levitating teddy bear.”

When he says it out loud, the whole thing sounds very foolish indeed, something out of a book of follies. Hermione flushes scarlet.

“Let’s talk about the broken mirror instead.”

Hermione tenses. She knows why he has chosen this event, in particular. A levitating toy goes against nature. But mirrors break all the time. People can break them without violating the laws of physics.

“Now, I don’t care very much how you did it,” he says slowly, making sure she grasps each word, “but _why_ you did it. What did you feel when you broke it?”

Hermione stares at the dark carpet at her feet, monochrome, slightly hypnotic. Another intentional feature of the room.

“I felt angry.”

“Why did you feel angry?”

“Because,” she says, knowing she is only digging the pit deeper, “I don’t understand what is happening to me, why I can do these things that people tell me cannot be done.”

The doctor tents his hands in a show of deep thought. But she knows exactly what he’s thinking. Every week, he tries to persuade her she isn’t really doing the things she says she is, or that, at the very least, there is no supernatural force involved. And every week, he fails.

“Not understanding what is happening to you is perfectly normal at your age. You are undergoing lots of change and you can’t make sense of it. Your friends and classmates are experiencing something very similar,” he says, very sagely, as if he hasn’t already given her the lecture on puberty. But he believes repetition is key.

“I don’t think my classmates can break mirrors with their minds,” she mutters under her breath.

Doctor Thorpe is not pleased with her backhanded comment. He gives her a piteous look, the way grown-ups do when children insist on being thick. 

At the end of the session, when her mother arrives to pick her up, he advises a stronger dosage for the next three months.

Hermione balks at the news. She hates the pills. She often pretends to take them, holds them under her tongue, and then spits them out when her mother and father leave the room. She’s not being wilful. The pills are bad for her; they make her feel groggy and nauseous. The pills also don’t explain the magic. She can still do things she should not be able to do.

She’s afraid she might start crying in the car. But she doesn’t. She doesn’t know if it’s also magic, but though the tears feel hot on her eyelashes, they don’t fall.

It’s her mother who, after parking in front of their house, quietly dissolves into tears.

Hermione’s heart breaks to see her mother - a dependable, cheerful adult - succumb to such despair. Jean was always so proud of her.

She takes her mother in her arms.

“It’s okay, Mummy. I’m all right, I promise,” she whispers in her mother’s hair, knowing it’s a lie.




The problem is, whenever she tries to reveal her abilities to her parents, those abilities suddenly founder. Whatever power she possesses, it does not seem to listen to her, not _always_. It’s as if magic had its own peevish inclination and only acted in secret.

Many an evening she has convened her parents in the family living room to try to prove to them, once and for all, that she is _different_. And every time, she makes a fool of herself. And every time, her parents look a little more hopeless. Doctor Thorpe has only confirmed their fears. Their daughter _is_ different, but not in a magical way. She _sees_ things. She is, in a word, delusional.

Hermione is always angry at him. She writes in her diary, _I know it’s not right to hate anyone, but Doctor Thorpe deserves it. He thinks he’s very clever and sympathetic, but he’s neither. He does not listen to me and he only gives me pills to make me feel worse. He’s just an arrogant old man who thinks he knows me. But no one does._

She underlines the last sentence. Hermione is proud of her shorthand. She feels especially proud because she taught herself, using only library textbooks. Children her age rarely accomplish something so difficult. Most of the children she knows still struggle with normal writing. She smiles a superior smile, but it does not last. Hermione Granger may be the top of her class, nay the best in her school, but she is friendless. Her classmates find her odd and bossy. They think she’s too “intense”. They don’t like how she holds herself with such importance, as if she harboured a dangerous secret.

But she does, doesn’t she?




Her father receives the call on Sunday afternoon.

Hermione is building a “night sky” for the science fair. She is pottering with the electrical circuit which will be glued to the back of a dark cloth that has been poked with holes. She is so consumed with the project, that her parents don’t know how to approach her, at first. They like it when she works with her hands, when she seems to be at peace with the world.

“Darling,” her father speaks up first, eyes shifting uneasily from her to the electrical circuit. “I…we just received a call. You won’t be going to therapy next week, I’m afraid.”

Hermione blinks. That’s certainly not bad news to her. But, of course, there must be a reason. There’s always a reason.

Doctor Thorpe is dead.




The first thing that haunts Hermione is that he jumped off Southwark Bridge into the Thames. It was suicide. And it doesn’t make sense to her, at all. Doctor Thorpe was confident in his worldview. He seemed to nurse no secret pain. One never knows about other people, but _she_ knew. There is something _wrong_ about this death, something ugly.

The second thing that haunts Hermione is her last diary entry.

_I know it’s not right to hate anyone, but Doctor Thorpe deserves it. He thinks he’s very clever and sympathetic, but he’s neither. He does not listen to me and he only gives me pills to make me feel worse. He’s just an arrogant old man who thinks he knows me. But no one does._

Underneath the paragraph, there is a new sentence, written in ink.

_I do._

It looks exactly like her writing, but she does not remember putting it down. She couldn’t have. Why would she?

But who – who else would write it but her?

She shuts the diary tight and closes her eyes.

_I know it’s not right to hate anyone, but…_

The words echo in her ear, mocking her. 

What if _she_ did this? If a vase could break under her gaze, why couldn’t a man?

The moment this horrible thought crosses her mind, she goes to the desk where the bottles of pills are arranged by colour. She unscrews the caps and takes several, at once.

She is going to take her pills from now on.

In the middle of the night, her little circuit comes to life on its own, illuminating the black cloth.

The “night sky” fills her room with ethereal light, but Hermione sleeps a troubled sleep.

She does not see the beautiful stranger, sitting at her desk, watching her sleep.




“Don’t you ever fantasize about a tall, dark stranger?”

Her roommate sits on the window sill, one foot dangling against the wall. Her nail polish is a vivid purple.

Hermione massages the crick in her neck. She has been pouring over her notes for the past four hours.

“Um, not really.”

“I don’t believe you. Even you must think about guys _sometimes_. Books can’t kiss you back, you know.”

Hermione knows Madeline means this in a loving way, but the comment still stings a little.

“Maybe I think about girls,” she counters sharply.

“All right,” Maddie says, lifting both arms in surrender. “Whatever works for you. As long as you give humanity a try. We’re not such a bad bunch.”

Hermione smiles. Maddie has no way of knowing she is her first real friend. It is only at university that she has found some solace from the loneliness of her young years. Here, she can shed the scales of magic. She can think away the mental illness, the delusions. She can pretend she’s just a very studious, very introverted person. She can pretend the worst thing about her is that she’s too shy.

“You’re not actually shy,” Maddie told her once. “You have very strong opinions and you’re definitely not afraid to air them in class. But it’s the outside world that freaks you out, Granger.”

She has let Maddie believe this, because it’s not that far from the truth.

“I like _you_ ,” Hermione says, still looking at the girl’s purple toes. “So, you see, I have given humanity a chance.”

Maddie waves her off with a smile. “Oh, I don’t count. I’m easy to like. No, the real challenge is Simon. It’s him you need to give a chance.”

Hermione cringes inwardly. She had a feeling this was coming. Simon Allen is in her Edwardian Novel class. Sometimes, he walks with her to her next class. He laughs at whatever she happens to say, even when it’s not even remotely funny. He’s bookish, like her. He’s asked her to study together. They even like the same brand of tea. Maddie doesn’t have to point it out to her. Simon _likes_ her, which seems miraculous on its own. But it’s true.

It’s just that – Hermione can’t let herself be distracted. She can have friends, maybe, but boyfriends? Those are dangerous.

“Oh gosh, you look terrified, and it’s only Simon!” Maddie teased. “Why, a strong wind could take him down.”

Hermione laughs weakly. Simon _is_ harmless, but she’s not. She can’t afford to get attached to anyone. And if she were being honest to herself, Maddie isn’t entirely wrong. She _has_ thought about men before. Sometimes, in her dreams, there’s a particular figure…always unclear, yet so familiar…

Hermione lets her eyes fall on Maddie’s toes again. She freezes. The nail polish has turned a rich emerald.

Maddie follows her gaze, confused. She lifts her foot to her face. “What in the blazes – it’s _green_ now?”

“Must be – must be a weird chemical reaction,” Hermione says hoarsely, trying to sound normal.

“Or a shit nail polish,” Maddie jokes, but she looks a little spooked.

Hermione swallows the lump in her throat. _This_ , this is exactly why she won’t give Simon a chance.

But at least, this time, someone else witnessed her magic. It’s been happening more frequently recently, others noticing the small changes around her. It’s not all in her head. She’s not insane.

Years ago, this would have been a great comfort.

Now, the fact that she is of sane mind, after all, does not alleviate the emptiness inside her.

Maddie gets up with a yawn. She pulls out clothes from the closet, preparing to go out. Hermione returns to her notes, but her mind is miles away.




In the dream, the tall, dark stranger that Maddie was talking about is sitting at her desk, looking over her notes.

His face is in a fog, but she can see the sharp cut of his jaw and it sends a small thrill down her spine.

He flips a page carefully. “Your shorthand has improved,” he commends her, as if he were an old friend.

He turns towards her, still cast in frustrating shadow, but she notices that he wears a green emerald tie with a snake engraved on it.

Hermione watches in wonder as the snake begins to move, coiling and uncoiling its tail, looking straight at her.

She feels seen in a horribly intimate way, as if her skin were being peeled from flesh. 

She wants the snake to stop moving. She closes her eyes, feeling hot all over.

The next time she looks at his tie, the snake is only a heap of ash.

She can see the man’s smile, and only his smile, glinting in the dark. “There’s my girl.”




Simon corners her as she exits the library. He’s brought coffee.

“Want to grab a bite at the pub? We could go over our notes together. I’m honestly struggling with Arnold Bennett at the moment, he’s so insufferable–”

Hermione hauls her book bag over her shoulder. “You mean you’re on page 300 and he hasn’t stopped talking about Mrs. So and So’s house entailment? I sympathize.”

Simon grins. “I love it when you’re mean, but yes. Please help a dying man. Lunch is on me.”

Hermione winces. She likes talking books with Simon, even though, most of the time, he just listens and nods while she has a debate with herself. But does she have to go to lunch with him? Does she have to sit at a cosy corner table while he knocks his knees into hers and tries to take her hand?

She ducks her head. “I wish I could, really, but I have to finish a big essay due Monday. We could chat over e-mail, if you’d like.” 

“I try not to use the computer too much,” he says proudly. “Don’t trust these new technologies. You gotta think for yourself. Nothing can replace one on one time, I say.”

Hermione tries very hard not to roll her eyes. Simon thinks he’s such a free thinker, but he mostly copies the older, more bohemian students who have an aversion to all things “modern”.

“Okay, then you can pen me a letter,” she mutters, trying to swerve past him, but he blocks her path.

“Come on, _Mione_ , there’s time to finish the essay until Monday. You’re always working so hard. You know what they say about all work and no play. Come and have lunch with me. I promise it’ll be painless.”

Hermione doesn’t remember giving him permission to use _that_ particular nickname, and she knows very well it _won’t_ be painless, no matter how well-intentioned Simon might be. She scrambles for something to say, another excuse, another valid reason to sojourn, but her mind is drawing a blank, and she fears she will actually have to say yes, when she hears someone speak behind her.

“There you are, darling. I’m sorry I’m late, traffic was beastly.”

The man who steps in front of her and puts his arm around her shoulder smells like evergreen and heady spices and it makes her head dizzy. He is also the most beautiful man she has ever seen, which sounds perfectly ludicrous, yet it’s true. There’s something otherworldly about his allure. Even Simon takes a step back, dazed by the elegant figure. His dark elfin features are contrasted by a pair of chilling grey eyes and Hermione instantly thinks _magic_.

“Oh hello,” the young man says, affably enough, to Simon, giving him a cursory glance. “Have I interrupted something?”

Simon opens his mouth, flustered, but can’t think of a good answer. Hermione can understand why. The stranger looks more like a professor than a student.

“No, we were just talking,” Hermione interjects, fighting a blush. “About the reading for next week.”

“Ah, always with her nose in a book, this one,” the young man teases, looking down at her with a knife-like glint in his eye, “wouldn’t you agree, Simon?”

The boy jumps at the sounds of his name. He looks helplessly between them, smiles awkwardly. “I – er, yeah, guess so.”

“It’s a wonder you’ve agreed to see me at all,” the young man adds, pulling her closer. “Shall your friend join us for lunch?”

Simon swallows thickly, shuffling his feet. “Oh no, I don’t want to intrude. I’ll let you two…I’ll see you around, Hermione.”

“See you in class,” Hermione says, hearing her own voice from afar.

“It was nice meeting you,” the stranger says with utmost politeness. He has not offered his name.

Simon lingers for a moment longer, staring at Hermione in disbelief, and then he walks away fast, losing himself in the November fog. 

The young man detaches from her slightly, but his hand lingers on the small of her back. His voice crackles like cold fire. “Shall we walk?”

He sounds unconcerned, as if her refusal would not make much of a difference. But Hermione instinctively feels that it would be a bad idea to turn her back on him.

She follows him down the leaf-strewn alley between the red-brick university buildings, fingers clenched tightly around the strap of her book bag.

“I suppose I should thank you for getting me out of lunch,” she says conversationally, even though her heart is threatening to burst.

“Mm, yes, tedious fellow, if harmless. But don’t think you are exempt from lunch. We have quite a few things to discuss.”

Hermione glances at him. “I don’t make a habit of talking to strangers.”

“Good, because I am not a stranger,” he replies smoothly. “Those of us fluent in magic need no introduction. We already know each other. Don’t we, Hermione?”

 _Yes_ , she thinks, overcome by shock. _I knew you were magical, like me. I felt it._

“Of course you felt it. You are untrained, but quite talented.”

Hermione stops. “Did you just read my mind?”

The stranger grins and his features become even sharper. It’s then that she notices the emerald green tie peeking through the opening in his coat.

“I’m glad you’ve noticed. Would you like to read mine?”

9.

The dusty antiquarian shop looks terribly uninviting. Hermione can see broken chair legs and disused cabinets overripe with junk through the sooty windows. But the young man pushes the creaking door open.

“Trust me.”

She shouldn’t. For all she knows, he could be leading her into an abandoned building to kill her. But her curiosity is hungrier than her fear. If magic is real and there are others, she _must_ know.

She steps inside.

The junk has disappeared. In its stead is a mess hall with a cavernous ceiling, a large winding staircase, a roaring fireplace and several portraits on the walls. There are tables and chairs and flagons of drink and patrons sitting at those tables, nibbling at their food and chatting and not minding the fact that there is a broomstick sweeping the floor or that the dirty plates and cutlery float on their own to the kitchens or that the pictures inside their newspapers are _moving_.

Hermione feels as if she’s been drenched in a bucket of ice-cold water. It’s all _real_. It was never just in her head. She’s not alone.

She is elated and terrified. She hopes that if this is all a delusion and she has finally gone stark raving mad that she doesn’t wake up.

“Let’s find you a seat,” he mutters in her ear, guiding her solicitously to the back of the room.




“How could I have lived all my life without knowing about the wizarding world?” she asks, poring over _The_ _Daily Prophet_ in awe. This secret world appears to have governments and schools and banks and shops and sports and history and culture and figures of worship. It is impossibly detailed and yet confined under a strange, impervious lid. She cannot countenance it. 

“It’s quite easy, actually,” her companion drawls. “What you do not wish to see is not there. Muggles have ignored our presence for centuries, much to their folly.”

Hermione looks at him. “But I’m not a – a Muggle. I should have been made aware. Someone should have told me. It’s unconscionable to let a child feel so horrible and inadequate.”

“Yes, it _is_ unconscionable,” he says carefully. “Why do you think you weren’t told?”

Hermione glares at him. “You tell me. You’re the one who has sought me out.”

“Yes, but I hope I don’t have to spoon-feed it to you. You can figure it out on your own, can’t you?” he says, pushing the tankard of Gillywater towards her.

Hermione studies the wood grain, running her fingers over the notches. She sinks her overlarge teeth into the softness of her lip. She’s always had a bad habit of chewing on it until it’s raw red.

He watches her mouth intently.

“Because – because there must have been something about me that discouraged them. Perhaps my magical levels were too weak.”

Tom smiles a sad, sympathetic smile. “We both know that’s not true, as much as you’ve tried to numb your abilities with medication throughout the years.”

“How do you know that? How long have you been watching me?” she asks, a little louder than intended.

Tom does not look ruffled. “For as long as I needed to ascertain your potential.”

“My potential?”

“Indeed,” he says, clicking tankards together. “You see, I was not told about magic either. I had to find out on my own, just like you. And I’ve spent my whole life looking for people like us.”

Hermione parts her lips. She considers his perfect features, his magnetic presence. How could wizards and witches not want _him_ in their ranks?

She straightens her spine. “You still haven’t told me your name.”

“It’s not a very good name,” he says, shrugging his shoulders.

“You mean you don’t like it.”

He smiles. “Clever.” 

“Tell it to me anyway,” she says, rather aggressively. But she feels she is entitled to every bit of knowledge she can get her hands on.

So Tom Riddle gives her his name.




Tom tells her about the Hogwarts letter she ought to have received. He tells her _why_ they were both kept out of school, why they were shunned from the magical world.

“We are too strong for our own good, Hermione. We are particularly good at wandless magic. Most ordinary wizards never get very good at it. They need a stick to help them manipulate matter. But we, and others like us, are different.”

Hermione absorbs the information breathlessly. She memorizes each word.

“Decades ago, a wizard like us, too strong for his own good, rose from ignominy and tried to wrest power from the Ministry. His name was Grindelwald. He was swiftly captured and killed by an army of Aurors, but he got dangerously close to the seat of power. Since then, the Ministry has taken care to prevent such disasters from ever happening again. They make sure that young and gifted children who might “go astray” never learn how strong they are. They keep us in the dark.”

The more Tom talks the angrier she gets. The downright fascist practices of this new world shock and disturb her, although they do make a horrible kind of sense. Muggle history is rife with such authoritarian regimes that seek to control individuals. 

“I can teach you magic. I can help you hone in your skills, become a powerful witch. Grindelwald’s ideals are not dead. There are some of us who still hold out against the yoke of power.”

“You’re part of the insurgence?” she asks quietly, casting a wary look about them.

Tom smiles. “You could call it that.”

She frowns. “How do I know this isn’t a trap? How do I know you’re not also seeking to control magical individuals?”

Tom’s eyes glitter with pleasure. “You don’t. Of course I have my own selfish agenda. We all do. But I am your best shot at getting everything you’ve been denied. I am the only one who knows exactly how you feel.”

Hermione stares at his emerald tie. There is no snake on it. “How many times have you given this speech? You cultivate individuals like me, don’t you? You watch them from afar, until you feel they’re ready to join you.”

There is a flash of something darker, less appealing, in his eyes but it’s gone in the next moment. “Clever again.”

“No, not so clever,” she shakes her head. “If I were _really_ clever, I’d walk out of here and stay far away from you.”

Tom cocks his head to the side. “And what will you do?”

Hermione takes a long drink from her tankard. Gillywater reminds her of hard gin, yet it’s soft and sweet around the edges, like crème de menthe.

“You have been in my dreams,” she says, after wiping her mouth. “I suspect you will be in my dreams again. I’d rather talk to you in person, if you don’t mind.”

There’s something about her pert tone, the inkling of humour and the fear underneath it all, that delights him.

“I do believe we shall get on famously.”




“Death Eaters,” she murmurs, tasting each word. It’s not enough to conquer death. You must also eat it. You must consume every aspect of mortality, until you are free. You must split your soul, so that if they take one piece of it, others remain. _You_ remain.

Hermione eats what they give her. She gorges herself with forbidden knowledge until she cannot tell the difference between night and day.

Tom brings her to his grand country house in Little Hangleton. He takes her by the hand as they come out of The Leaky Cauldron and the next thing she knows, she is standing before a gothic edifice, in the middle of a graveyard, surrounded by mossy hills. He tells her they “apparated”, which, as far as she can tell, is a form of teleportation. Her stomach roils. She feels violated, in an undefined way. She kneels on the ground before the funeral stones and thinks about where magic has led her.

Tom does not comfort her. He points to the house in the distance. He claims it is his ancestral home. He grew up here in perfect innocence, he tells her, knowing next to nothing about magic.

Here, she begins to learn. She is given books and instruments, but she is not given a wand. Tom wants her to keep practising wandless magic. He says that she will be far stronger if she can master spells with just the tip of her fingers.

Other Death Eaters arrive to meet her. All of them are older, but many of them share her story: wizards and witches who had to fend for themselves, who had to find out who they are the hard way. But there are _some_ members who have always known, who come from magical families, who lived in privilege, who attended Hogwarts, who worked for the Ministry. Tom has managed to sway them to his cause. He can persuade anyone of anything, she has found. He has opened their eyes to the iniquities of the wizarding world. The current system must be brought to heel, or destroyed. A new order must be instated.

Will she join them?




Hermione feels overwhelmed, like a new-born given a different set of lungs. Every day, there’s a new discovery. Every day, she questions what she discovers. But she keeps all doubts to herself as she pours over books on hexes and spells, magical creatures and dangerous potions, antiquated histories of magic and tracts of magical mathematics called Arithmancy. She even reads _Hogwarts, A History_ , trying to picture the hallowed halls she was not permitted to enter. Soon enough, she begins to piece together a narrative. She learns that blood matters, very much. She is a Muggleborn, someone whose family line is not magical, but there are wizards and witches who come from magical families, whose ancestors were all wizards and witches, and they are called Purebloods. She begins to suspect the world does not look kindly on Muggleborns. After all, she knows how wizards feel about Muggles.

None of the other Death Eaters are Muggleborn. Most of them are Half-Bloods who’ve lived with a Muggle parent for most of their lives. A few of them are Purebloods who’ve turned their backs on their families. They claim to be equal amongst themselves, but she has noticed there are clear hierarchies. The Purebloods expect respect, and the Half-Bloods expect _her_ to know her place.

Days pass in a blur. She’s forgotten about university. She wonders if Madeline worries about her, if she thinks she’s given up on school or simply gone home for Christmas.

She doesn’t go home for Christmas.

She feels awful just thinking about it, but she can’t picture talking civilly to her parents and pretending her world has not been turned upside down. It would be a sham, like much of her life.

She has lost weight and there are dark circles under her eyes, but when she looks in the mirror she sees something terribly beautiful: her skin is aglow with what she has gained and her eyes are filled with this great desire to know even more. She feels ascetic.

Every morning, she practices jinxes and curses with the Carrow siblings who are moody and impatient and who one day want to kill the Minister for Magic for the restrictions he has imposed on the Dark Arts. She doesn’t much like the Carrow siblings, but they are closer in age and willing to train her. She always feels tired and bruised after their sessions, because she is wandless and must attempt the counter-spells without a channelling instrument. Something as deceptively simple as Expelliarmus knocks the wind out of her, but she perseveres because this is what it means to be reborn.

When Tom arrives in the afternoons she’s always a little weakened, yet that only makes her more determined. Tom likes to enter her mind and force her barriers down. She must be strong, he tells her, must learn to defend the secret passages of her mind. Most of the time, she loses the fight. But sometimes, when she tries very hard, she catches glimpses of his mind.

One afternoon, she happens upon the corrugated gates of an orphanage and a long file of grey-clothed children climbing up the stairs before Tom can break the connection between them. She makes a small sound of complaint as she is pushed out of his mind. She barely got to see anything.

Tom decides to punish her by teaching her a new curse. Something he calls an “Unforgivable”.

“Crucio,” he says, pointing his wand at her.

Hermione drops like a fly. She writhes at his feet in agony. Pain snatches her from all sides, at once. She realizes she has not really felt suffering, _real_ suffering, until today. It is illuminating and electrifying.

Magic is martyrdom.

When she comes to, she is kneeling at his feet. Tom sinks his hand in her tangled hair and brings her face close to his.

“I’ve just given you a taste of power, darling.” He sounds perfectly amiable, as always.

His cool mouth almost brushes against her hot and trembling lips and Hermione shivers. Tom intends to pull away, but Hermione clutches at him with both hands, framing his face. He is her anchor in this new, terrible world.

She looks into his eyes and pictures the snake coiling around his throat.

“Again,” she says, jaw clenched.

Tom’s eyes widen a fraction.

“Do it again,” she repeats savagely. She will have all of it, or she will have none.

Tom drinks her in for a moment. There is a wilderness in her that he is just beginning to see, that he had only suspected.

He curses her again.

Hermione tilts her head back in almost bacchanal abandon. She latches onto the poisonous magic, even as it breaks her apart.

A red trickle of blood runs down her chin when he’s finished.

She licks the corner of her mouth.

“Is that all?”

She does not mean for it to sound like a taunt, she simply wishes to know. How much farther can a body go?

Tom looks down at her. He feels a curious and unexpected lack of control. He wants to do something he should not do. He steels himself. “That is all for now.”

“Oh,” she says, sounding disappointed.

And he realizes Hermione Granger is special, after all.

14.

What none of them understands about her is that she’s a young girl at a critical age. Young girls have monstrous appetites, especially after such a long fasting period.




The grounds of Riddle Manor are unkempt and overgrown. The topiaries have become prickly underbrush and the gardens no longer bear any resemblance to man-made designs. Nature has taken over. Only the drive to the house itself is still gravelled by an elderly man whose gaze is absent.

And there is the graveyard, of course.

She walks between faded funeral stones and time-worn effigies where rain water has darkened cherub eyes and lips and she touches each lonely figure and thinks about the living person. She reads the names, but they don’t really register in her mind. The divide between the living and the dead feels arbitrary. Wizards can live for hundreds of years, if they’re careful. And maybe longer, if they split their souls. Tom has told her she will make her own Horcruxes one day.

She pauses before the only grave that really matters. There stands the skeleton statue of the Grim Reaper, holding his scythe aloft. And on the funeral stone she reads the names of Tom Riddle Sr. and Mary Riddle, his wife. The dates of their birth and death have been erased not by weather but by magic. Tom must not want them to know too much about his family.

She often sits before this grave and tries to figure out what part of Tom Riddle is lie and what part is truth. She saw the orphanage in his mind and she wonders if perhaps he never belonged here and is only a pretender to the name. But why would he choose a Muggle name that he seems to dislike? Why would he come back here?

She touches the cold stone and closes her eyes. Stones do not hold secrets and yet images flash under her eyelids, of terrible violence and green jets of magic. Something happened here, something gruesome, but she does not mind. She wants the stone to tell her.

“They died screaming,” Tom says blithely, standing a few feet behind.

Hermione stiffens.

He walks over the frozen grass and stands by her side. “Or …perhaps they died peacefully in their beds. Death is death, either way.”

She flashes him a look. “I don’t think they’d agree with you.”

He chuckles. “I suppose not, but family just stands in the way, I find. Look at us, freed from our disappointing forbearers.”

Hermione picks up a heavy rock at the base of the grave. “Did you kill them because they were Muggles?”

Tom shoves his hands in his pockets. “I have never killed anyone.”

Hermione brushes the heavy rock with her fingers. She can feel the strange deposits of memory inside it.

“You told us that we must kill in order to procure Horcruxes. Your followers speak of bringing down the government by force. Your hands must not be very clean.”

Tom takes out his wand, rolls it between slender fingers. “You are currently weighing that rock, wondering if you could split my head open with it, aren’t you? Better drop it before your hands become dirty.”

She holds the rock to eye-level. “No. I would never – I would never waste your mind like that. I’d want it for myself.”

Hermione Granger never responds quite as he expects. She is, at times, innocent and vicious, depraved and childlike. 

“You may leave any time you decide this arrangement does not suit you,” he reminds her. “We shall Obliviate you and release you back into your little world, if you are unhappy.”

Hermione squints at him. “You don’t have to be a prick about it.”

Tom laughs. His eyes light up, despite his façade.

She is irrationally pleased when she gets a genuine reaction out of him.

She drops the stone. “You’re not Muggleborn, are you? These people – they meant nothing to you.”

Tom shrugs. “The truth is always a little more complicated.”

Hermione scowls. “The truth is simple. I seem to be the only Mudblood in your little group.”

Tom blinks sedately. “Where did you learn that word?”

“Do you think the others don’t whisper it behind my back?”

A strange movement ripples beneath his skin, like bones rearranging. “Who? Give me names.”

“All of them,” Hermione says coolly. “They know I don’t really belong here. Or anywhere, really.”

Tom says nothing. He offers her his hand. She takes it and he helps her to her feet.

There is a strange, quiet moment between them as his hand lingers on her waist. A sort of narrow understanding.

They walk back to the house together.




All of them get punished, without question.

Tom tells them they must submit to his will or leave in disgrace.

Hermione watches from the parlour, standing with her back to the wall, hands crossed in front of her dress, as each Death Eater enters Tom’s study.

In truth, none of them have called her Mudblood to her face. She read the word in a book on blood purity that Bellatrix Lestrange happened to leave on her desk in the library.

But she knows they’ve all thought it, especially Bellatrix.

They are all guilty, inside.

So she doesn’t feel bad for lying. Not even a little bit.




Hermione wakes one night to the sound of a heavy body slithering on the floor.

She sees the snake’s tail as she eases out of bed.

And she gives chase. Maybe if she catches the snake, she will stop dreaming about it.

The house at night is harder to navigate. But the giant serpent seems to be leading her somewhere.

The door is slightly ajar.

The snake slides into the sliver of light and onto the Persian carpet.

This is the master bedroom. Hermione takes a step forward.

The first thing she sees is Tom’s naked back and the poised, wing-like movement of his shoulder blades. The next is the naked and unremarkable body of Bellatrix Lestrange, bent over the side of the bed, holding onto the bedpost, hair in disarray. He fucks her roughly from behind, holding her head down while Bella issues choked little screams.

Hermione stands in the doorway, watching the proceedings with horror and detached curiosity. There is nothing feral about their coupling. Tom is clinical, precise. Bella is a rag doll. It is vulgar because it means nothing.

The snake has coiled before the fireplace, as if it found its home. Its raised head is a question to her. Hasn’t she seen enough? Shouldn’t she retire to the safety of her room? Wasn’t she better off before he ever came into her life?

But she keeps watching.

Tom turns his head to the side. He does not look at her, but he knows she is there. And he fucks with relish, because she is there.

Hermione watches him take out his cock and hold it out above Bella’s expecting mouth, stroking it lazily.

Only when he comes does Tom finally look at her. Their eyes meet across the room. Hermione holds his gaze.

Bella is covered in his seed and she takes it greedily, licking her lips and fingers.

In this light, they are both beautiful, Hermione thinks.

Bellatrix shrieks when she sees the young girl spying in the doorway. She tries to cover herself. She wipes at her face in vain. She reaches for her robes, but Tom is quicker than her. Bellatrix falls back on her knees as he casts the Unforgivable.

“Imperio.”

Bella’s eyes turn foggy. She awaits his command.

Tom smiles at Hermione. “Come here.”

Hermione steps into the room, fingers tracing the wall behind her, as if it could protect her.

“What would you like her to do?” Tom asks, walking towards her in his resplendent nakedness. 

Hermione glances at the snake. “I – I don’t know.”

Tom traces her chin with his finger. “I’m sure you can think of something.”

He always seduces her, not with beauty, but with the expectation of cleverness. That has been the game from the start.

She turns towards Bella and opens her mouth to speak. 




Hermione eases into the wingback chair. She sinks into the soft cushions. She remembers sitting like this in the doctor’s office, but never quite so comfortably.

She watches as Bella advances on the snake on her hands and knees.

Tom stands behind her chair. He lets his hand fall on the back of her neck, playing with the loose curls there. He is still naked.

Bella gathers the snake to her bosom and kisses and licks its shining scales. She drags its weight between her legs, and allows herself to be bitten, over and over again.

Hermione thinks about Doctor Thorpe’s untimely death. How she was consumed with guilt, how she believed she had made him jump to his death. But perhaps it was Tom.

Perhaps he had cast the Imperius Curse.

It would be so easy, wouldn’t it?

She looks up at him. There is a grave on his face. He _is_ the grave.

He must be older than her parents, older than his parents ever were. Self-made, not yet born. Always young. The shadowy figure watching her sleep in her childhood bed.

“What do you want?” he asks, seeing the want flare in her eyes.

“I want to _be_ you,” she says, breathless, unaware of her own words.

It is never what he expects. He expected a confession of girlish desire. _I want to be with you._ He expected her to recognize that she belongs to him. _I am yours._

Instead – instead, she doesn’t accept doubles.

It must be her and only her.

Despite what he wrote in her diary, so many moons ago, he doesn’t know her at all.




The next day, Tom tells her he has a special mission for her, for all of them.

His spies have returned with good news. It is finally time to strike.

A sallow-faced man with oily black hair delivers his findings in a morose tone. The wards of Godric’s Hollow have been weakened. They are going to attack the house on Church Lane and capture the only son of the Minister for Magic, Fleamont Potter. They will take his wife and new-born son, too. Nothing makes a man cooperate faster than his family. And if not, they can dispose of them quite easily.

Tom goes over their strategy and distributes each of their tasks with perfect composure. The terror they wish to unleash may be anarchical, but it must also be practical.

He draws Hermione to the side before the meeting is over.

“This is your last chance to turn back, you know.”

Hermione does not meet his eyes. “It’s fine. I’m ready.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. I just need some fresh air. I’m going for a walk to clear my head.”

Tom traces the roundness of her cheek. “If you don’t return, I will understand. I will find you and empty your mind.”

 _And I will kill you_ , is the unspoken addendum.

Hermione knows. She feels it in her bones.

She smiles. “I’ll be back in time.”




There is only one telephone box in the entirety of Little Hangleton. She shuts herself inside the small space and dials the familiar number with shaking fingers, looking over her shoulder the entire time.

She almost hopes no one answers.

But her mother picks up.

“Hello? Jean Granger speaking.”

“Mum? It’s me…I – I know you must have been so worried. I’m sorry I couldn’t call before. I’ve been travelling.”

The voice on the other end does not say anything for a moment, and Hermione fears the worst. 

She is ready for anger and recriminations and tears, but she is not ready for indifference.

“I’m sorry, dear,” the voice says airily, “you must have the wrong number. I don’t have a daughter.”

Hermione blinks. “Mum – I know I’ve upset you, but if you’ll let me explain –”

“I’m sorry young miss, but I really have no idea what you’re on about. I have no children that I know of. I want to help you, but I don’t see how.”

Hermione realizes her mother is not acting out. She is being painfully sincere. She does not know Hermione Granger, because that person does not exist to her.

She realizes now what Tom has done. She puts the phone back in the hook and dissolves into muffled tears.

When she comes out of the box, her face is still wet, but she looks determined.

She climbs the pathway towards the Riddle House without a single look back.

* * *

Hermione returns to the present with a hollowed sigh.

The room is very quiet, the air still thin.

The men listen to her with rapt attention.

“I think I always knew in the back of my mind he was responsible for everything. I wasn’t his only victim, but I suppose I was his most desperate. It was a very clever way to recruit followers; sequester them from the magical world, make them believe they are delusional, condemn them to being lonely and misunderstood, and then show up when they needed you the most.”

“Yet you were the only Muggleborn he ever recruited,” one of the wizards speaks up finally.

Hermione smiles sadly. “I was also the only one he kept wandless. I have a few guesses as to why.”

Albus Dumbledore clears his throat. When he speaks, his voice is as clear as bells. “He saw in you something of himself, I gather.”

Hermione nods. “I dread to see it in myself.”

There is another uncomfortable silence as the Wizengamot reflects on the personal nature of Hermione Granger’s involvement in this bloody history.

“The rest you already know,” she says with a catch in her throat. “James Potter was merely a useful diversion. Tom’s real plan was to attack – Albus Dumbledore. And he almost succeeded.”

She can’t lift her eyes to look at the elderly wizard who has been so kind to her, who opened the door when she called for help that horrible night.

But Dumbledore smiles a wistful smile. “Ah, Tom has never forgiven me for not letting him attend Hogwarts. In forbidding this, I believe I did far more harm than good. In a sense, he is truly innocent and… I alone am responsible for all that has unfolded here.”

Hermione shakes her head. “The blame is mine. I acted of my own free will. I knew what I was doing.”

“You thought you did,” Albus counters. “But you changed your mind once you saw Lily Potter clutching her baby. You turned on Tom.”

Hermione swallows hard. Tears smart her eyes and blur her vision. “Far too late.”

“No, I wouldn’t say so,” Albus counters again. “For in doing so, you saved Lily Potter’s life and many of Tom’s followers were captured as a result.”

“Her baby and husband are dead, all because of me,” Hermione says in a strangled voice.

“No. They are dead because of mine and Tom’s folly. You have witnessed many terrible things in the last few days, Miss Granger, but you have not authored them. I promise you, I will see to Riddle myself. Their deaths will not have been in vain.”

This does not seem to warm Hermione in the least. She sways slightly in her seat, wiping at her eyes furiously.

The Wizengamot can plainly see how wracked she is with guilt. They realize no punishment they can serve will ever be as severe as the mortification she will inflict upon herself. They feel sorry for her. What a sad, miserable child, drawn into the web of a madman.

Albus places his wrinkled hand over hers. “I believe you need rest, Miss Granger. You shall come with me tonight.”

The rest of the wizards have nothing else to add. They know Miss Granger will be safe with Dumbledore. The Wizengamot concludes the hearing without much preamble. They have heard enough.

Hermione places her hand in the crook of the elderly wizard’s arm as she and Albus Dumbledore apparate to the docks, miles away from the Ministry’s telephone box. 

They walk quickly to the end of a pier, where the blinking headlights of a flying car are already waiting for them.

Once inside, Albus dispenses with the half-moon glasses. He lounges back in the sumptuous leather seat. The car’s engine purrs to life and they are lifted gracefully into the air.

Hermione stares out the window at the glittering landscape. She remembers her night sky and the circuit of lights. Her long-buried childhood.

She has never ridden a flying car before, but he promised her a treat.

“You did brilliantly, darling,” he says, turning her chin towards him. Her lips are raw red, as if she’s bitten them. “Better than I expected.”

Hermione smiles. “Did you doubt me?”

“Not for a moment.” He opens his arms wide for her. She falls into his lap, straddling him.

She traces the long white beard with her fingers. “It suits you, actually.”

Albus’ grin is pure Tom. “Do you think so?”

“Mm, indeed. I think I shall kiss you now,” she says, a little breathless. She has been struggling to breathe for so long. 

“Won’t you wait for the Polyjuice to wear off?”

She shakes her head. “I need you now, like this.”

And he understands, because they are alike, after all. This is the last anyone will ever see of Albus Dumbledore. The Great Albus Dumbledore. His corpse was turned to ashes by the young woman he holds in his arms, devious enough to start fires without a single word, strong enough to stoke them. His little hellion. They will unleash so many monsters together. 

Hermione feels the heady feeling of him in her mouth, the spices and the evergreen, his tongue mingling with hers. She kisses him with abandon, like giving herself to an Unforgivable Curse. Tom’s wrinkled hand is knotted in her hair, drawing her closer. She writhes against him, needs him to know how much she wants him inside her.

But no –

He’s forgotten.

Hermione Granger doesn’t want him.

She wants to _be_ him.

They part for breath. Hermione frames his elderly face, looks down at this dead man, her anchor in this terrible world.

“You know, you keep telling us we need to cast the Killing Curse in order to make a Horcrux, but all you really need is strong intent and a willing soul.”

Tom is slow on the uptake.

Probably because the poison is already coursing through his bloodstream. An old man’s body is weaker to such contagions.

He reaches for his wand, but Hermione snatches it out of his hand.

“No, I don’t believe you’ll need this anymore. And anyway, it’s time for me to try some wand magic, don’t you think?”

Tom chokes on his words. _You fucking bitch._ _You ungrateful little whore._

_You wondrous thing._

_My faithful copy._

_My better._

Hermione pushes the car door open and points his wand at him. “Sorry I was late, darling. Traffic was beastly.”

As his body falls out of the car, she sees, for the first and last time, undiluted love in his eyes.

Yes, his creation is magnificent.

Tom Riddle’s corpse drops into the Thames with a small splash, right over Southwark Bridge.

Hermione looks down at the dark water’s surface for a moment longer, almost checking to see if he will emerge.

He does not.

“Miss Granger. The bezoar, if you will.”

Hermione shuts the door and settles back in her seat. “Thank you, Severus. Always looking out for me.”

The dark-haired wizard scoffs in the front seat. He drives them away from the bridge.

Hermione reaches into her pocket and takes out the small stone, bites into it with relish. Chews. Swallows. 

She feels the poison slowly releasing its grip on her heart. She can breathe again. She inhales hungrily, looking at the night sky.

“Well. It is done,” Severus speaks in the silence. His voice betrays his relief. Tom could have easily discovered their ruse, if he had known to look. Lily could easily be dead now.

It’s a pity they couldn’t save the child…but he and Lily will have another.

“It is done,” she confirms.

He glances at the young murderess over his shoulder. She smiles at him, triumphant and aglow. There is something quite compelling about her in this role. It suits her.

"I admit, using shorthand as a cipher was not entirely foolish," he commends her with great reluctance. 

“Thank you. And you prepared the dosage just right, my friend,” she returns the compliment. 

Severus scowls. “I am not your friend. And next time, you will prepare your own poison.”

Hermione lifts her chin. “Certainly, if there is a next time.”

“Where to now, Miss Granger?”

“Back to Riddle House, if you please. And Severus?”

“Yes?”

“It’s Miss Riddle from now on.”

He gives her a long, meaningful look. And nods once, satisfied. “Miss Riddle.”

Hermione settles back into her seat with a small smile.

Tonight, there will be no need for owls.


End file.
